


Abandoning Neutrality

by the_divine_comedian



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Codependency, Established Relationship, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Prologue to season 4, Title is a reference to Dante leave me alone, Will cooks and takes care of Hannibal, communication through violence and talking, dark!will kind of, fluff because no one dies, the humanization of Hannibal Lecter, trust issues tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_divine_comedian/pseuds/the_divine_comedian
Summary: Will looks right back, stares and studies and sees. His face goes lax with surprise. “You were worried.”Hannibal inclines his head.“You were worried,” he repeats. “That’s why you called me in here. You didn’t trust me to stay.”________a dive into the dynamic between them post fall; Hannibal is weak and Will holds the all cards.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 124





	Abandoning Neutrality

**Author's Note:**

> indulged myself instead of writing a new chapter of my other hannigram fic... hehe. 
> 
> enjoy

_The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality._

_~ Dante_

* * *

  
  
The water tugs on his arms, sweeping him under.

His head, heavy, oscillates for a fraction of a second then whips back; he is entirely submerged. There is a muffled roar that glides past his ears, enigmatic except for the burning heat that caresses his cheeks and fills his lungs. Something smarts in his nose, bubbles of pressure tickling his lips. 

He is powerless. 

And he is weightless. 

The insistence in his chest tinges on unbearable and he reaches up, breaking the surface tension. He grips the sides of the tub and hauls himself upright. Water drips down his edging on too-long hair, plastered to his neck and forehead. He swoops it out of his eyes, careful to avoid the stitching across his cheekbone. 

Will rests his back against the cool tile; it’s a stark contrast to the steaming water pooled around his waist. He stretches and shuts off the faucet. The room instantly quiets. 

His elbows and knees still feel the phantom pull of the waves from the sea, cumbersome and stiff, like the salt found its way through his skin and rubs between the joints. He’s gasping a little now, glutinous in gulping the steaming air. 

Water has always been home to Will; the swamps and low tide creeks in Louisiana were more familiar than the voice of his father, the stream not far from Wolf Trap that he fished in nearly every moment to himself he had, even sailing the ocean for a month in his boat pointed towards Italy– unsure what he would find. Strange then, to have seen its ugliness and receive it’s unkind whitecaps and crushing pressure, battered and flung out. 

Even stranger, still, to find himself recreating it in a cramped bathroom tub. 

He checks the stitching in his shoulder. The skin around it is red, irritated, and it stings— all of his wounds sting, the ache in his neck to the thin cuts on his feet and shins from the sand. But nothing looks loose or in any danger, so it’s probably fine. He’s endured worse. Gingerly, he relaxes further against the tile wall. His left side is bruised, the edges tinted green and blue, despite, supposedly, healing. Will hasn’t been able to sleep on either side since. 

The hot water bites at his injuries and he leans into it. Sinking and absorbing the sensation. 

He sits there until his legs cramp and fingers prune up, the steam ceases and the top layer of the water goes stale and cold. Will shivers and groans as he grips the edge of the tub, easing slowly to his feet. He steps over the side and grabs the towel, drying himself off as quickly and carefully as he can. When he’s finished shaking out his dripping curls, he kneels and unclogs the tub. 

Rising is a process of groans and creaking salt-water joints, but he stands again and twists his body around to crack his spine. It pops in three successions. 

He glances down at the descared clothes on the floor and frowns. Hannibal has requested that Will do his share to keep the house tidy, even for their limited stay, but the thought of bending down again makes Will gag. He wraps the towel around his waist. It’s not like Hannibal would know. 

Shame licks his stomach and he nearly chokes; for a moment, he’s afraid that… what? Hannibal would catch his dirty clothes on the floor of a bathroom? Afraid to disappoint him. 

Well, that is something Will is certainly not going to hold under a microscope. It spurs his towel wearing decision on further, an act of self protest. 

He exits the bathroom and breathes in the fresh air. He opened a window before getting in the bath, and a light breeze rushes down the hall. His feet patter across the wood floor, leaving damp imprints in his wake. 

He is about to round the corner to his room when he hears someone call his name. 

The voice is raised, sharp and cracked at it’s edges, like it isn’t the first time it’s called out. 

Will raises an eyebrow and backtracks, walking to a door he’d passed. It’s cracked, slightly, and Will pushes it open, stepping into the threshold. 

Hannibal is sitting up in bed, hands clasped in his lap, posture infallible. His expression is relaxed, head tilted to the side. Ashen hair falling midway across his brow. 

“I called for you,” He says. “You must not have heard.” 

Will narrows his eyes “I did, just now. I was in the bath.” 

Hannibal notices the towel and says nothing else. 

“Did you need something?” Will grits out between his teeth. His eyes flicker down to Hannibal’s lap; his knuckles have gone white. 

He watches Hannibal’s lips part and hears his tongue click, but he doesn’t answer right away. He frees his hands and lets them smooth over his lap, pressing down any wrinkles in the blanket. “How was your bath? Relaxing, I hope.” 

A laugh huffs out from Will’s chest, half surprised. “It was fine. Stitches stayed in.” 

Hannibal’s eyes pass over his marred face and the injuries on his shoulders. “Soaking is not recommended.” 

Will does roll his eyes at that, feeling his own nakedness suddenly. “You did warn me.” He can feel each vulnerable part of him on display, the smile across his abdomen, it’s brother on his forehead. The bruises and the red threaded stitches. A silver-white bullet wounded puckering his skin. 

“Evidently not well enough.” It sounds like chastisement, and it burns Will like a rash.

“I’m fine. Were you just calling me to check?” 

Hannibal shifts a millimeter to the left; Will is sure it causes him pain, but he hides it exceptionally well. “I haven’t seen you since this morning.” 

Will’s eyebrows shoot up. “What— you _missed_ me?”

The corners of Hannibal’s eyes seem to turn down, mirroring his lips. “Getting in and out of the bath must have taken a lot of effort. You need nourishment.” 

Something clicks and Will’s expression relaxes into understanding. “You’re hungry.” 

If it’s possible, Hannibal looks something akin to annoyed. Will has caught him.

Hannibal blinks once. “Yes.” 

“And you want me to get you something?” Will is practically high. 

Hannibal’s jaw works for a brief moment. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” 

Will steps towards the bed, feeling Hannibal’s attention locked on him. He has to tilt his head up to meet Will’s gaze. It’s intoxicating. 

“Say please.” 

Hannibal blinks. “Please, Will.” 

Will’s mouth twists into something between a smile and threat. “Okay,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

He turns around before he can see Hannibal’s glare. 

Some scattered drops fall from his hair and down his back, making him shudder. Goosebumps cover his bare skin, the hair on his arms raised.

Will stops off at the room he’s been sleeping in and grabs a shirt and a pair of shitty, cheap boxers. They feel like paper against his skin. The cotton t-shirt is too big— it’s not his, of course. But any ridiculousness or shame he might have felt has been stripped from him. The memory of clinging to Hannibal, both of them naked and covered in blood, chest to chest in the shower trying to get clean, breaks through the forefront of his mind. There are no secrets between them; at this point, out of necessity. Hannibal still needs a hand to get out of bed and walk the few feet to the bathroom. 

The kitchen is a small affair. They hadn’t had a plethora of options, with Hannibal delirious and bleeding out. And Will, delirious and bleeding out and have no idea where any of Hannibal’s safe houses were. They’d found a cabin not too far off the cost, where Hannibal had stitched them up with thread from the cabinet. Nothing but Advil and cans of shitty bear to dull the pain. 

Hannibal had taken the brunt of the fall. His back hit the water first, and it showed. He has black and green bruises coating his medial and arms and the backs of his thighs. Will reaches into the pantry and remember’s Hannibal’s hands weak on his, guiding the needle through his abdomen. No secrets. 

He finds a box of old farfalle noodles and grabs it. It’s half empty already. Will remembers seeing a jar of cheap tomato sauce on one of the lower shelves, and grabs that too. 

There’s only one pot, so he boils the water first. He digs around for salt and finds a navy blue cylinder package in the back— it, too, is almost empty. He’ll have to make do. He doesn’t waste it on the water, the way Hannibal had shown him back in Baltimore. 

  
(Back when the strangest thing about their relationship was it’s professionalism or lack thereof; who had dinner with their psychiatrist?)  
  


Will is filled with the image of Hannibal in Florence, slurping up spaghetti noodles and doing his utmost to not spill sauce on his ridiculous suit. It’s so absurd Will drops the box of farfalle. 

Only a few tumble out, and he hisses bending down to pick them up. 

He stands over the stove, stirring when he feels needed, which isn’t often. His neck aches, and he reaches up to press his thumb to a sore spot, and thinks of Molly’s cool fingers on him. She’d rub circles on the base of his neck when she found him awake, shivering in the dark. She never asked, and he never told. A dull hurt grips his chest and he heaves, swallowing it down. He closes his eyes and shoves the thought of her away. 

After the noodles are soft, he dumps them into a large bowl and drains it, plopping the sauce into the pot. It takes less than five minutes to start bubbling.

He serves them both a portion, taking less. He’s not hungry, but he knows Hannibal will insist on it. It’s not threatening, he can hardly reach up to pat Will on the back, let alone strangle him— but he also happens to be the most prolific serial killer living, and Will doesn’t want to pick this battle. 

He balances the bowls in his hand, a bottle of wine in the other. They haven’t touched the alcohol yet, besides the beer on the first night. Hannibal said it would be better to be aware. But, Will figures, if Jack hasn’t caught them yet, he isn’t going to. 

They are on borrowed time anyway. 

Hannibal eyes the bottle of wine in his hand immediately, eyebrows raising slightly, but he says nothing. 

Will hands him his bowl, “I salted it.” 

Hannibal picks up the fork and tastes it, swallowing it slowly. He pauses. “I will be glad when I am healed.” 

Will sits on the edge of the bed, scooping up a bite. “Be my guest to try and cook anything with what little we’ve got.” 

Hannibal looks affronted, but says, “Thank you, Will.” 

He shrugs in response and keeps eating. The wine rests against Hannibal’s leg and he grabs it, popping the cork with a knife he found in the drawer. 

Hannibal’s eyebrows raise further. “A handy party-trick,” he muses. 

“I’ll thank you for keeping any remarks to yourself,” Will says, lips wrapping around the neck of the bottle. It’s dry and sharp, inexpensive. The taste is familiar. 

He holds it out to Hannibal. 

He looks at Will and then at then bottle. He reaches out and takes it. Will watches on as he opens his mouth around the neck, jaw flexing. 

Short stubble has grown in, dark in most places, silver in others. Will has never seen him without a perfectly clean shaven face, and it’s humanizing. He looks like a man. 

A man who is, at present, utterly dependent upon him. 

They eat the rest in silence, comfortable in each other’s presence and, Will suspects on both their parts, already worn out from the day. Healing, he’s heard, takes energy. 

Hannibal finishes first, placing the bowl on the empty side of the bed. Will bides his time by eating slowly, chewing tenderly, his jaw cracking. 

The silence grows thick between them. Will grips the bowl tightly before setting it in his lap. 

“We’ll have to leave soon. There’s not much left here,” Will breaches the topic they’ve both been thinking of, he’s sure of it, Hannibal is always one step ahead. But Will is hesitant to break whatever cease-fire coexists between them. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas?” 

Hannibal seems to stiffen. “We need a car,” he says, voice low, accent thick at the end of each word. “I have a place further west. We,” he hesitates, “can decide from there.” 

Will licks his lips, brushing a hand over his mouth to wipe whatever might have stuck in the corners of his beard. “You don’t sound sure.”

Hannibal breaks eye contact with him. “I’m never sure of you.” 

“That makes two of us,” Will bites back. “Don’t stab me again.” 

“I could say the same to you,” his voice is calm. 

Will wants to rip his head off. “This will not work unless we trust each other.” He presses his fingers above his closed eyes and sighs. “Hannibal, we have to trust each other.” 

“I did trust you, Will. Remember what you did with that trust.” 

Will huffs a humorless laugh, “Remember what you did to Abigail.” 

Hannibal’s jaw turns away, eyes closing briefly. “Then you haven’t forgiven me.” 

“I have. You know that I have.” 

“If Jack Crawford comes knocking, what will you say? What will you do, Will?” Hannibal tilts his head, lowered to force eye contact. “Bedelia had an alibi.” 

Will laughs again, this time, it’s with ugly hilarity. “I’m not Bedelia.” 

“No,” he says, eyes dark and bottomless. “You are not.” 

Will looks right back, stares and studies and sees. His face goes lax with surprise. “You were worried.” 

Hannibal inclines his head. 

“You were worried,” he repeats. “That’s why you called me in here. You didn’t trust me to stay.” 

“Will–” 

Will cuts him off. “No. No, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal breathes, once, out his nose, sharp and quick. “You have betrayed me before,” he reaches out a hand and the ghost heat of his palm touches Will’s arm. 

Will’s arm slaps it away, hand flying to Hannibal’s jaw. Will’s standing now, bowl clattering to the floor. He’s grasping Hannibal’s chin, fingers pressing into the giving flesh of Hannibal’s jugular, stubble scratching the pads of his forefinger and thumb. Hannibal parts his lips in a silent cry, his face blank but for the small crease between his brows.

“Don’t you dare,” Will seethes. “I killed Dolarhyde with you. I got you out of prison right under Jack’s nose–” he presses harder, fingers gripping tight and forcing Hannibal’s open mouth to pucker. “I left my _wife_ for you. And you have the audacity to think that _I_ am going to walk away?” 

Hannibal’s dark eyes stare right back at him. 

Every thought and hurt bursts to the forefront, his limbs and fingers are buzzing, his head feels drunk and paradoxically more awake than he’s felt in goddamn _years._ This rush is synonymous with Hannibal, the dark understanding and comprehension of all that has past between them, forgiveness or not. 

Will raises his unoccupied hand and threads it through Hannibal’s hair, tugging his head back. “You left me. You went to Italy with Bedelia, and you left me to die. Are you afraid I’m going to do that?” He sneers, violently angry. The stitches in his cheek burn. “I should. Show you how it feels.” 

“I felt it,” Hannibal gasps out. “When I,” he licks his lips, and Will follows it with his eyes, “when I was under Alana’s care. You had abandoned me for three years.” 

“You deserve to rot in Hell,” Will whispers, voice breaking. “But I will rot beside you.” 

He leans down and licks into Hannibal’s hot open mouth. Will feels Hannibal tilt his head up, his arms reaching over to fist in Will’s shirt. He tastes like wine and tomatoes and death. It feels like life. He allows Hannibal to press his mouth to Will’s, over and over. 

_This_ is intoxicating; Hannibal, the monster, killer, ripper, pliant and wounded beneath Will’s hands. His throat is so soft in its exposure. Will drinks it in, thinks about sucking until Hannibal is drained dry. He thinks about the way Dolarhyde bucked under the knife at his belly, the way Randal Tier’s broken jaw felt between his palms. This feeling, a hot spike of pleasure, is familiar but brighter, hotter. He wants to rip Hannibal apart and sew him back together with the string that lays half used in the living room. 

When he has indulged Hannibal enough, he protests and bites into his lip. Will can taste the blood as it breaks under his teeth, and he sucks at it until Hannibal’s hands press flat against his shoulders. 

He pulls away, hands falling numbly at his sides. Hannibal’s hair is mussed and his mouth is pink and bloody. His chest, mirroring Will’s, heaves. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks between panting breaths. 

Hannibal looks at him, eyes unfocused. “Hm.” 

“Back,” Will clarifies. “Your neck. The bruising. Are you hurt?” 

He watches as Hannibal reaches up and grazes his lips with the pads of his fingers. “I am no more hurt than I was a minute ago.” 

Will nods, satisfied with this answer. 

He spots the bowl on the floor, and groans inwardly at the thought of having to bend over. His body aches like he’s run miles. 

Before he can, Hannibal’s hand grasps his wrist. His thumb presses against his ulnar vein, it’s a warning. 

Will twists his head to meet Hannibal’s eyes. 

“I would have killed you if you had chosen to go back,” He confesses, not a drop of remorse in his body.   
  


“So prison hasn’t changed you,” Will scoffs out, no bite behind his words. “Good. I like knowing you’d hunt me down.” 

Will grabs the bowl on the other side of the bed, and bends, slowly, to pick up his own. He takes one last sip of the wine before recorking it, but leaves it on the bedside table. 

He goes to the door and pauses at the threshold. His gaze says trained ahead of him as he says, “I will hunt you down again, and Chiyoh won’t be there to stop my knife.” 

“I know you,” Hannibal tells him. “As you know me.” 

“Is that trust? Codependency?” Will asks, tongue flicking out across his bottom lip, tasting iron and salt. “Love?” 

He hears Hannibal smile. “It’s us.” 

**Author's Note:**

> listen I could rant for hours about Will’s character arc being that he gives in to his darkness, and Hannibal’s arc being his humanity and codependency of Will. 
> 
> In other words: I’m on the market for some beta readers if anyone is interested let me know :))


End file.
